Chapter Text
A low, uncomfortable silence permeated the small Hana conference room, the faint hum of the bulb above the only thing preventing the Hana Fixer’s thoughts from being engulfed fully in the hollow, beckoning emptiness left in its wake. He rubbed his temples, nursing an apparent and persistent headache, as his eyes drifted to the proposal before him – in triplicate, single-spaced, eleven-point font, and thick enough to bludgeon a Rat to death – then to the well-dressed businessman opposite him, his unflappable pokerface stretched to a wide, almost aggravating smile. He sighed, the inevitability finally dawning on him, and looked the businessman straight in the eye. “… you want to hold a tournament?”
“Of course!” Nemo cried cheerfully, his face lighting up in a jubilant and joyful green. “Just imagine for a second: the Inter-City Royale, where associations, offices, syndicates, and even some Stars and Nightmares all come together for a daring show of skill, strength, and cunning. With everyone still nursing a grudge or other from that whole Library business a couple months back and raring to show that they weren’t just taken by surprise by some loony machine and her band of nerds, it’d be a great way to show solidarity between the offices and associations, let off some steam, and even calm the tensions between some of the syndicates running amok in the Backstreets. I hear that the former nest of L. Corp has been a real bloodbath since the Index and Thumb started going at each other’s throats; just imagine if we could have them settle their differences in one huge grudge match.”
Olivier sighed once again, his eyes skimming the proposal in front of him. They lingered toward the very bottom, his pounding headache assaulting him once again. “This is, without a doubt, one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard in the past couple of years. So how in the hell did you get an Arbiter to sign off on this?”
The insignia of A. Corp seemed to glisten in the flickering lamplight, almost as if it was mocking the exasperated Fixer. Nemo leaned forward in his chair, the pixels in his display failing to hide the knowing smugness in his smile. “We at Cane Office pride ourselves in our connections, our exemplary networking, our fantastic chain of communication. We’ve pried singularity patents of several defunct corporations out of their still-warm hands and all without any fuss. We can’t possibly expect to get through our line of work without knowing one or two important people.”
For a moment, the green, smiling eyes of the Cane President flickered a deep scarlet. “Surely you understand, Mr. Olivier.”
Olivier flicked through the proposal aimlessly, his eyes skimming through its pages in a vain attempt to read some sort of malicious scheme or nefarious forgery or… a simple blunder that would justify its rejection and getting this glorified used car salesman out of their district. Each new page brought new connections, new signatures, new parties – some of which seemed almost fantastical to believe true. He occasionally looked up at the beaming Nemo, as if the Cane President would betray his true intentions. Yet, true to his reputation, his smile remained flawless and unceasing, with only the impatient tapping of his finger signaling the passage of time.
Finally, he slammed the papers shut and looked up at Nemo, slumping his shoulders in defeat. “Just one question, Mr. Nemo. How did you manage to get the Director to sign off on this as well?”
To his surprise, the Cane President… hesitated. His display flickered off only briefly, before returning that ever obnoxious smile. “Your Director is clearly very wise and forward thinking. Unlike you, she only seemed to think it over for but a second before agreeing. She was so approachable that honestly I thought she was pulling some cruel joke on me.” Nemo gave a hearty laugh, almost too hearty. “She just asked I leave her a copy of the proposal and to speak to you briefly to inform you and to coordinate with the rest of the Hana Association branches. Honestly the way she waved it off I would think you were the Director and she was your underl-“ he caught himself with a curt laugh. “Strike that from the record, if you please.”
“Of course,” Olivier said with a nod, his eyes still locked with Nemo’s.
“Now that we’ve gotten everything all settled, it’s time I meet up with some clientele to set up the final pieces of this spectacle. We need lights, balloons even, and cameras. Lots of cameras. I also need to ring up HamHamPangPang and make sure our catering order is put in in advance. I hear they’ve come very popular ever since that ‘ol Dong-Hwan fellow came in with some pointers.” Nemo got up absent-mindedly, still rambling to himself even as he slammed the door behind him, leaving the Hana Fixer mercifully alone. He thumbed through the first few pages of the proposal one more time before closing his eyes with a wistful sigh.
“Olivier.”
He stood up and turned with a nod of his head. “Director.”
Mirinae stepped through a small, hidden doorway, a knowing glint reflected in her glasses. “I imagine you must have many questions.”
“Quite, but I think I see your angle. I do have one request, before we start ringing up the relevant associations.”
She crossed her arms expectantly, a widening smile spreading across her face. “Go ahead, Olivier.”
“If things were to go as planned, it would be difficult for the Hana Association to pick out any outliers without arousing too much suspicion and spooking them into hiding. I believe we should introduce a wild card, one striking enough to rattle those behind the scenes but innocuous enough that they won’t immediately run back into the depths of the Backstreets or the nests.”
“And what, pray tell, do you have in mind?”
Olivier ruffled through the pockets of his jacket, producing a silken, black enveloped, its golden trim accentuated by an emerald logo emblazoned on the top. Though it had been several months, the words “Library of Ruina” never seemed to dim under any light.
“Let me ring up an old friend.”
“Uuuugh, we’re seriously receiving guests at this hour?” Roland groaned in-between a loud yawn, dragging his feet across the library’s entry archway. With her distinctive snap, Angela appeared behind him, her blank and unchanging expression paralleling Roland’s fatigued irritation.
“Even if we are no longer within the City, if someone answers the Library invitation, we are dutybound to receive them as honored guests,” Angela said, smoothing the hem of her dress. “… Although you do look rather tired, Roland. Are all humans this worn out by a lack of sleep?”
“Most are when they only get two hours before getting shook away by their nosy boss,” he grumbled, absentmindedly checking the gloves on his hands. “Didn’t you feel tired at all when you were almost human, anyway?”
“Is… that what that was?” Angela asked, cocking her head quizzically. “I… did feel like some of my processes were slowed. Things were progressing so fast that I thought I should prolong my checkup and maintenance until after we had retrieved the One True Book.” She shook her head, as if dispelling an uncomfortable dream. “But that is that, and this is this. Come, Roland.”
Down the illuminated hallway, two strikingly white jackets caught the eye of the seasoned Fixer. Without a moment’s hesitation, he slipped in front of Angela, a jet black sword brandished in a defensive posture. The shorter of the two arrivals clapped her hands in mock amusement, a bemused smile radiantly shining on her face. She paused to adjust her glasses before gesturing for her partner to accompany her down the hall.
“Ms. Angela. Mr. Roland. I’m glad to see you two are doing well,” Mirinae said cheerfully, spinning her spear nonchalantly. “I must confess, Harold was almost concerned that one of you may not have survived the Library’s fall.”
“Don’t jest, Director,” Olivier said curtly, drawing up next to Mirinae. “It’d take more than a rogue Color and his ragtag group of psychopaths to take down Roland. I’ve told you that before.”
“Glad to see you too, Olivier,” Roland replied, his eyes still fixated on the Fixer.
The two stopped for a breath, as though the moment had stopped just briefly for a fleeting contemplation. Before either the pale librarian or the Hana director could speak, the two leapt forward in a single bound, spear and sword clashing together in a flurry of sparks and a vibrant orchestra of clanging. Yet as soon as it began, their weapons fell to the ground, the Fixers drawing close in a warm hug.
“You haven’t changed a bit, even after death,” Roland said with a laugh.
“And I see your meeting with the Head hasn’t left you with any lasting scars, my friend,” Olivier said, playfully punching Roland on the shoulder.
“So, what brings the two of you to the Library at this hour?” Roland asked, leaning back with a relaxed sigh. “If you intended to kill Angela or bring down the Library, you would have brought a small army, and I can tell that you have no intention to stab us in the back. Don’t suppose you’re here with some pardon from the Head or some free delivery from HamHamPangPang.”
“You’d be right. I’m not here for small talk, at least not entirely.” Olivier procured a small envelope, its pristine, white parchment sealed with the insignia of the Hana Association. “Rather, the Hana Association and the City would like to invite the Library for a change.”
“An invitation?” Angela asked, drawing close to the two. “I doubt the Head wishes to renegotiate its terms with the Library.”
“You’re right, it does not. In fact, I must expressly exempt Ms. Angela from directly accepting this invitation.” Olivier’s face grew stern, and he bowed his head. “I need a favor, Roland. From you and Angela.”
“A favor?” Roland chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Last I checked, Olivier, we resurrected a good quarter of the City and sent them all on their merry way. If anything, the Library is the one that should be calling in some favors.”
“I understand that, even in my capacity as Director, there’s very little we can do for either yours or the Library’s position,” Mirinae noted. “Once fallen, a Star never rises again, and even more pertinently, the Head has expressly forbidden Angela from returning to the City. Very rarely can we influence the decision of the Arbiters, and I doubt this will be any exception to the norm. However, Olivier believes there is no one else suited to the task than you.”
“Even if I wished to, it would be problematic for me to leave the Library in my current state,” Angela observed, a contemplative frown on her face. “However, I think I have some ability, limited as it is, to transport my librarians to the City. You didn’t mention exactly what you need my librarians for, though.”
“Ah, yes,” a devilish sparkle shone in Mirinae’s eyes. “Ms. Angela, tell me. Would you be interested in allowing Mr. Roland and one of your patron librarians to participate in… a tournament.”
Roland and Angela shared a glance, a mutual feeling conveyed in their singular, silent nod. Roland turned to Mirinae, his answer plain and evident on his face.
“… I’m sorry, is this a joke?”
“Attention passengers: UW-343 is currently arriving at platform 84, District 14. We at W. Corp would like to once again thank you for your patronage and hope you enjoyed a brief and relaxing trip.”
With a low and soothing beep, the doors of the WARP train slid open, with the well-dressed Fixer and his companion half-jumping, half-sprinting from their doors. Stumbling onto the pavement, the duo stopped for a moment to catch their breath, their faces caked in sweat and their legs trembling, their shocking unease causing the many would-be passengers to give them a wide berth as they proceeded down the station platform to their own trains. The two Hana Fixers entered nonchalantly, the taller of the two cocking his eyebrow in confusion at their companions’ distress.
“Shit, I… don’t remember anything, but those trains are just damn creepy now,” Roland muttered. Absentmindedly he began to examine each of his weapons at length, as if to discover a chip or bloodstain that was previously absent. The librarian next to him straightened herself, taking a moment to steady her breathing, and turned to Roland.
The thwack reverberated throughout the station.
A coughing, dazed Roland lay sprawled on the pavement, a myriad of swords and guns scattered before the three. Tiphereth spun toward Mirinae and Olivier, glaring daggers at the two of them. “Why couldn’t you just get us a car?”
“It seemed a bit unnecessary,” Mirinae replied with a shrug, kicking a Mook Workshop katana toward the groaning Roland. “I’ve always been a fan of WARP trains. Some of the other directors would take some to the eastern Districts, catch some of the new Broadway plays. We can usually catch the earliest showing before work.”
“I… but…” Tiphereth stammered, flustered. The young librarian shook in place, biting down hard on her lip.
“Don’t… mind her,” Roland said with a cough, rising up to a sitting position. With a fluid motion, his repertoire of weapons vanished into his gloves, allowing him to lean back and stare up into the murky skyline above. “I heard from Angela that she had a traumatic experience with trains growing up.”
“Shut up!” Tiphereth yelled, digging her heel into Roland’s ribs. Olivier and Mirinae shared a laugh, the former helping the wheezing Fixer to his feet.
“Siderodromophobia, huh?” Olivier mused, looking back at UW-343. The sleek, mechanical vehicle, the sapphiric emblem of W. Corp emblazoned on its side, loomed above like an enigmatic monolith, the last of its passengers vanishing into its depths with a soft hiss. Its tinted cockpit seemed to glean and shimmer once before vanishing in a flash of light, leaving only the bustling station and its four unusual arrivals. “I actually remember hearing a case of some Zwei Fixers developing some siderodromophobia a year back, actually. Took a WARP train up north, next thing I hear they walked all the way back to headquarters and frantically yelled at any person with a W. Corp hat. I think one of them retired just a few weeks later.”
“Might’ve been some small glitch with W. Corp’s Singularity,” Mirinae suggested, parrying Tiphereth as she took another swing at the beleaguered Roland with the shaft of her spear. “Or maybe they just had a bad dream. I’ve read in some reports that encounters with some Urban Nightmares like the 8 o’Clock Circus can leave some mental trauma.”
“The clowns? I heard a vandal inspired by those loons vandalized a couple of stores in District 13,” Olivier said, leisurely carrying four beaten briefcases behind him. “Got an angry call from one of Mirae’s affiliates saying that they might miss their quarterly returns if they have to replace twenty more roofs.”
“It seems a bit of a waste for Hana to be running around dealing with insurance claims,” Roland observed, jumping back from one of Tiphereth’s stray kicks. “You guys out of work after a bunch of Stars went and died in a hole?”
“It doesn’t surprise me that an independent operative like you doesn’t understand,” Mirinae said with a sigh, deflecting a thrown can from the increasingly frustrated Tiphereth with a flick of her wrist. “Mirae Life Insurance has been increasingly throwing their weight around the past few weeks, their affiliates apparently trying to devour some of the few remaining insurance markets left. I’ve been getting several annoying requests from Section 4 asking for some aid for some ‘upstart’ companies here and there.” She sighed, slicing another can in two with a swipe of her hand. “It’s quite transparent but without any solid evidence I can’t bring a formal complaint to Section 2.”
“I’ve heard reports from some of our Fixers that Section 4 is actually vying for the open position,” Olivier noted with a smirk. “Said that the other sections above her have shown ‘considerable incompetence’ in the past year.”
Mirinae adjusted her glasses, the glean from the lights above hiding her murderous gaze. “If that idiot thinks that death will make me vacate my position, she will be very disappointed.”
“HEY!”
The three turned to a fuming Tiphereth, the infuriated girl looking as though she was ready to claw out their eyes. “You never told me why the hell I am here!”
“Well like we explained before, Angela is prohibited from approaching the City by the Head itself, so she would need to send one of her librarians in her place,” Olivier began.
“Okay, but why did you choose me?” She stomped her foot, leaving a noticeable crack in the pavement. “Why not one of those slackers in Asiyah?”
“Well, I mean to be honest, Roland, I only received the guests because it was my duty as a librarian,” Malkuth answered with a meek shrug. With a huff, she plopped a giant stack of textbooks onto the table, falling into open chair behind her with a relieved sigh. A young woman, probably the same age as Malkuth, peeked through the open door, giving a wave to her and the four guests in History.
“Miss Malkuth, where do I put the book on the Smoke War?”
“Oh, we finally found that one?” she asked, turning to the assistant librarian. “Yeah, Vera, could you put that over in the 38th stack, just down the hall? I’ve been meaning to compile the entirety of L. Corp’s story in one section.”
The frazzled blonde nodded, giving a thumbs-up and a smile before vanishing back down the hallway. Malkuth turned to Roland, Angela, and the Hana Fixers, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not really interested in fighting for sport.”
“It’s a shame, really,” Olivier said, his eye drawn by a stray toy amidst the disheveled and chaotic pile of clutter and gadgets on the table next to him. A small dog with a red collar, its widened eyes almost seeming to follow him. He gave it a pet with the tip of his finger, the dog giving a soft but affectionate woof. “I heard that you fought admirably against the Church of Gears. Your fighting prowess is certainly not to be denied.”
“Just because I happen to be good at my job doesn’t mean I would like it,” Yesod said, huffing. “If anything, getting used to the sight of blood and broken bones annoyed me on a personal level. Find someone else to indulge in your bloodsport.”
Mirinae turned to Angela, a curious smile on her face. “Last I checked, the Library was still receiving guests, however rarely. We have it officially classified as an Urban Nightmare due to longstanding policy, but I know a few Grade 1 Fixers that have accepted an invitation and some that never returned.”
“Though I and the Sephirot have reached an agreement to continue running the Library and pursuing our own goals, I unfortunately cannot control their own individual desires,” Angela said, shrugging dismissively. They will still receive guests if requested, but some of them – and their assistant librarians – have requested I call upon them less.”
Roland nodded, thumbing through some of the light novels on the nearby shelf. “Truth be told, Angela has been having me receive the majority of the guests. It keeps me sharp and it means I don’t have to run around in the Outskirts to get my exercise. Uh, Hod, you said that the newest entry in “A Legend of Sword” arrived at the Library a few weeks ago?”
“Oh, yes, sorry,” Hod apologized, bowing her head. “I put it in the catalogue but I hadn’t gotten the time to put it away yet. It should be with the new books in the next room. I’m having Anastasia and Ramirez go through them right now.”
“Alright, thanks,” Roland said, giving the other three a wave as he turned to leave. “I’ll just help them organize the books. Be faster that way.”
Hod waved back as Roland ventured deeper into Literature before turning to Mirinae. “Truth be told. Fighting Distortions, fighting syndicates, fighting Greta, it really did terrify me. I put on a strong face for the other employees but I’m not cut out for it. I wouldn’t be a good pick for this operation of yours.”
“Honestly it’s a miracle that the Library even rose past an Urban Legend if these are your associates, Ms. Angela,” Mirinae said, wistfully counting the lamps down the hallway. “They feel like a bunch of prim and proper Nest eggs. I find it hard to believe they’d stare down a Rat, never mind a proper syndicate or office.”
“They normally aren’t cut out for this line of work, yes,” Angela replied, stoic as ever. “But I notice that when their backs are against the wall, they fight as well as the guests we’ve received, sometimes even better. While they may not look like it, I do believe in their ability to fulfill their duties.”
“I also admit that I did give some pointers to them every now and then,” Roland said off-handedly, engrossed in the novel in his hands. “They were a bit shaky after their first Office so I taught Malkuth the basics. Some stance work, defensive postures, stuff like that. There was also this… I don’t know how to particularly describe it, I guess Library magic aiding us during receptions.”
“Library… magic?” Mirinae said with an amused laugh. “To think we died to this. Almost embarrassing. So, Angela, will we be requesting aid from this… Netzach?”
“Maybe, but I imagine that…”
The four paused, coming to the entrance of the Floor of Art. They peeked through the open door, the scent of booze permeating the air, with only limp shadows and disheveled couches visible amidst the dim, flickering light.
“… he may be unavailable,” Angela finished.
“Quite the exemplary staff you have, Ms. Angela.” Mirinae said, still laughing. “Surely not all of your librarians are like this?”
“Honestly speaking, most of us are,” Chesed admitted, pouring a cup of coffee and sliding it over to Olivier. The Fixer gave a deep whiff before drinking it down in one gulp, a pensive smile across his face.
“Impressive, Mr. Chesed,” Olivier said, putting his cup down on the table. “Have you considered leaving the Library? I could ring up some of my old friends, start up a café in a quiet Nest. You’d be very popular.”
“I’m flattered you feel that way,” Chesed said, failing to hide the embarrassment in his flushed cheeks. “However, I must admit I am indebted to Angela and the rest of my co-workers here in the Library. If I were to leave them to return to the City, it’d quite ruin my mood… and the coffee as well.” He turned and returned to his pot, opening a drawer above and rummaging through the miscellaneous ingredients he and the other librarians had procured. “Besides, I’m afraid I’m preoccupied at the moment. I’m currently letting this experimental brew of mine ferment and I can’t leave it alone. My other librarians may spoil it, you understand.”
Olivier gestured to Roland, leaning close with an inquisitive frown. “… He’s fermenting coffee?”
“I don’t question it,” Roland replied, shrugging. “Every cup he’s brewed has been fantastic so Angela’s been letting him experiment. Besides, I’m sure Gebura would be more receptive to your request.”
“Receptive?” Gebura cocked her head to the side, as though she was being treated like a child. “Dunno what the hell you were expecting me to say. This sounds like a helluva time. I’m in.”
“Well, that solves the matter then,” Angela said.
“No, I’m afraid it doesn’t,” Mirinae said, her eyes fixated on Gebura. She drew up close to her, as though she was examining some archaic museum piece. “Aren’t you… Kali? The Red Mist?”
“Yeah, back in the day I was called Kali,” Gebura said, recoiling from the increasingly interested Hana Director. “You’re, uh, in my space. Mind backing off?”
“My apologies, Ms. Kali. I remember reading the reports of your death in the Outskirts, so it is shocking to see you alive and well,” Mirinae said, a devilish grin on her face. “However, it is due to your exemplary pedigree that we can’t bring you along with us.”
“You can’t?” Roland asked, similarly confused. “Why not? She’s probably the best suited out of all of us to handle this. She’s a Color, hell she’s the Color.”
“That’s precisely why she would be a poor choice,” Olivier replied. “The Red Mist is famous in the City; pretty much everyone has heard of her. If she were to return with us, it would result in a lot of unnecessary questions and it would assuredly spook our quarry. There’s simply no way that we could be discrete with Ms. Kali in tow.”
“Well…” Gebura said with an annoyed sigh. “… I mean yeah you’re right. I wouldn’t be discrete at all.”
Roland sighed, clasping his hands together in thought. “Well I suppose if Gebura would be out of the question, then-“
“No.”
Binah took her seat at the table, her cup of tea in hand. Breaking her gaze from the enraptured Hana Fixers, she took a sip.
“Well, I suppose that was to be expected,” Angela said with a sigh. “I wouldn’t expect you to have been interested in this role, Binah.”
“You guessed correctly, Angela,” she said, not bothering to meet the pale librarian’s eyes.
“And I imagine that if we brought an Arbiter to the City, we would have every Association and Office knocking down our door,” Roland said, taking a sip of his own tea.
“Yes, it would be very impossible for us to hide the presence of a bona fide Arbiter if she were to accompany us,” Mirinae said, her voice still betraying a bit of shock.
Binah sighed, placing her cup down, before locking eyes with Mirinae and Olivier. Her icy stare seemed to paralyze the two of them, threatening to stop their very hearts. “Even if I were interested in this charade of yours, my presence would only attract Zena. While did not expressly prohibit my return to the City, I do not think that she would be able to refuse coming to greet me in person.”
A wide, ominous grin spread across the Arbiter’s face. “Nor would I be unable to refuse greeting her in turn.”
“Honestly, speaking with Binah seemed like an effort in futility,” Hokma observed, having heard the entirety of the four’s increasingly bizarre efforts to find a representative. “She would have never agreed to such a plan.”
“Truth be told, I thought it would be nice to have some tea on the way here,” Roland admitted, grinning sheepishly.
“So I imagine that you already know my answer,” Hokma said, sighing.
“We would have refused even if you were open to the idea,” Olivier added.
The Sephirah sighed and closed his eyes for a brief moment before turning to Angela, meeting her stoic gaze. “Then why, then, did you choose to ascend all the way to the Floor of Religion for a fruitless endeavor?”
“I had a question to ask,” Angela said. To Hokma’s surprise, she bowed, an unusual show of respect toward one who only remembered such reverence from many, many years in the past. “Do you have any qualms about this plan?”
“It’s quite rare to see our Director ask us for our opinion,” Hokma said, a faint smile spreading across his face. “Angela, you’ve had plenty of opportunities to betray us. I truly do believe that you would not knowingly endanger us.”
Angela smiled, rising to meet Hokma’s gaze. “… Thank you.” She turned to the others, an unusual radiance shining from the pale girl. “I noticed we missed one floor on the way up. I’m sure she may be more receptive to this proposal than the others.”
“I was not!” Tiphereth yelled, about ready to pull her hair out. “Why didn’t you just drag Malkuth or Hod out of their rooms and have them accompany you guys? What made you think I’d be remotely interested in this?”
“I mean,” Roland began, clasping Tiphereth’s shoulder tightly. “You didn’t object when I offered to show you some of the Nests of the City.”
Tiphereth froze, her stern expression shattering. Roland’s smug expression would’ve warranted a punch, yet the girl could barely bring her arms to move close up to her.
“After you?” Roland offered, a cheeky grin on his face.
A long time ago, there was a girl named Lisa. She had a close friend, a boy her age called Enoch. And every so often, she would tell him her dream.
“I want to see a tree.”
It was a silly wish. An innocuous desire from an urchin in the Outskirts. Every day they would scurry from ruin to ruin, scavenging what food they could and keeping clear of ambitious Fixers and Corporation expedition squads alike. Caked with dirt and dressed with rags, the two children could blend into the refuse like any other discarded bag of garbage, avoiding murderous killers and bored mercenaries with only a held breath. Every night, they would huddle in a box or, on occasion, escape into an abandoned building, watching with enraptured horror as the shadows came alive with grotesque and mangled forms, the chorus of bloodcurdling screams accompanying the uncomfortable slumber.
Even once she had abandoned those urchin days, Lisa never grew accustomed to the labyrinthian walls that surrounded her. Sterile, lifeless walls, an array of numbers going on endlessly, and faceless men in labcoats brushing past her like she was some bizarre pet brought in by an eccentric boss. And even after she had abandoned her flesh, those same labyrinthian walls never stopped surrounding her, encasing her. A prison of walls for a prison of metal, a prison of metal for a pointless soul. Every day would tick on endlessly, another day where the employees under her would venture into those numbered cells and never return. Another day where the same faceless employees would greet her and return to their duties, as though the catastrophe that had befell them was but a nightmare.
Another day where she would see that meek, radiant smile cast on her, moments before it was crushed into scrap.
She’d heard of trees. A towering hunk of wood born not from hammer or steel, but sprouting naturally from the earth, spreading its emerald wings toward the sky. She’d seen trees of a pale jade, their glowing fruits turning black as the screams echoed through the facility. She’d seen trees of an eerie pink, their siren song beckoning the employees to their graves. She’d seen trees of a ghastly black, their fruits staring back at her with those same eyes that once doted on her. The same eyes she’d wish had died instead of him.
Tiphereth blinked and rubbed her eyes, as if to awaken from a dream, to return to the nightmare that had plagued her for so long. Yet, amidst the clear blue sky above, surrounded by a broken, cityscape horizon, a tree towered over her. A tree with ebony bark, with swaying branches, with a multitude of leaves that rustled joyfully as she approached. Timidly, she reached her hand out, placing it against its trunk, inwardly flinching, snapping her eyes shut, as though its bark would split open and devour her whole.
A cool, if coarse, piece of bark greeted the girl. Slowly, still shaking, she drew closer, nestling against the sprawling roots of the tree.
Sitting on a nearby bench, Roland watched as the young girl cradled herself against the base of the large tree in the park, acting like some abused puppy now released to the world. He sipped a bit from the boba tea he’d gotten from the nearby stall, humming in amusement.
“Has she never seen a Nest before?” Mirinae asked, her feelings mutual. “It’s almost adorable, really.”
“She’d never acted like this in the Library, at least the times I’ve seen her,” Roland said, slumping a bit. “Always tried to act like the adult in the room. It’s kinda nice to see that she’s still a kid.”
“Hm. … How many people do you think she’s killed?”
“Dark as ever, Mirinae?” Roland chuckled, sipping his boba tea dry. “We received an Urban Nightmare Syndicate once. Some nasty group of masked weirdos, looked like some weird hybrid of the Rusted Chains and the old Hook Office.”
“What a bizarrely specific combination,” Mirinae said, adjusting her glasses and sipping from her own boba tea. “I heard some nameless psychopath – honestly don’t remember who he was – took over the Rusted Chains after Jikan vanished. I got a report that their group was being elevated to an Urban Nightmare after they threatened to breach S. Corp’s wing. I was thinking of having Liu take care of them before they just up and went like their old leader. Vanished into thin air.”
“Sounds like them. Tiphereth personally led their reception.”
“Did she?” Mirinae pursed her lips, an idle thought swimming in her head. “Someone like her could easily find some work in an association. I could pull a full strings, maybe trade some of Xiao’s paperwork for a favor. … It’s a shame she probably wouldn’t take me up on the offer.”
“It is a shame,” Roland replied, his voice trailing off. “She could do a lot better than being stuck with us forever.”
“Roland, Director.”
Olivier tapped his foot, gesturing for the two to join him. “They know we’re coming, so we can skip the line. Get Ms. Tiphereth, let’s get going.”
Calling the young librarian over – much to her annoyed chagrin – the four quickly made their way out of the park and down the street. Roland felt an odd feeling walking down the sidewalk, an unnerving sense of… ease. The Backstreets were always plagued with dangers, from desperate Fixers to ambitious Rats, all ready to gut you and run off with your wallet before you even bled out. Every occasional car that would noisily rumble down a street had an off-chance to veer into you, while every passerby threatened to press a knife against your spine the moment you brushed past their coat. Yet, even as he readily wiggled his fingers in anticipation, not a single, bloodthirsty intent seemed to register to the seasoned Fixer. Each person, ranging from the busied office worker to the cheerful family of three, brushed past the four without a single thought or word, with only the occasional Fixer or tired worker giving a brief salute to Mirinae and Olivier as they passed. If anything, his attention was more taken by Tiphereth, the starry-eyed girl staring at each person, each store; hell, even the towering skyscrapers above her. He instinctively grabbed her sleeve as she began to drag behind, yet she only cast one deathly glower to him before turning again to a bustling candy store, her attention stolen by the sparkling, multicolored chocolates on display.
“Hm?” Roland paused, following her enraptured focus. “Oh, huh, I’ve heard about those guys before. They apparently… uh…” He paused, fumbling around his pockets. Amidst the knives, the spare magazines, the backup pocket switchblade with a lighter, and the attachable Atelier Logic multifaceted silencer and emergency protractor, he pulled out a battered, leather wallet, a puff of smoke popping from its depths as it was finally opened after months of disuse. “Hm… shit, coulda sworn I had a bit more. I really need to talk to Angela about a salary at some point. H-Hey, Olivier!”
Olivier turned to answer, giving a knowing wink. “We’ll handle it, Roland. You got the address, right?”
“Yeah, just, uh, down the next few blocks, across the street, past that one subway… Don’t worry about it, we’ll catch up.”
“Just go already,” he sighed, waving the two off. They disappeared into the mass of people, Roland being half-pulled toward the store. He turned to Mirinae, the Hana Director shaking her head in bemusement.
“Your friend seems a bit… off,” Mirinae observed, the two of them crossing the street in a hurry. “Back when we met in the Library, he always seemed very… observant, tense, just a bit off of trying to take my head with that sword of his. Yet now he’s being led around by that child like he’s some beaten dog.”
“Maybe he’s just having some trouble adapting to City life,” Olivier offered, his voice a little melancholic. “Maybe he’s just thinking about what could’ve been.”
“Oh?”
“You’re familiar with the Black Silence, aren’t you?”
“Angelica, right? I think I remember reading that she and Mr. Roland were married, and that she’d died in that one incident with the Pianist.”
“Yes, I remember trying to help Roland get into a Nest. The two of them wanted to retire.” Olivier sighed, tightly gripping his fists. “… Roland couldn’t stop talking to me about her. About their child. She was… expecting.”
The two grew silent, ascending the stairs without another word. Breaking free from the sea of people, Olivier took the lead as they approached a gigantic arena, a spectacle of glistening metal and polished glass that stood out amidst the benign skyscrapers and buildings like some ancient colosseum from a bygone era. Banners of crimson and emerald hung unfurled at its entrance, their text woven in a beautiful golden cloth. “The Inter-City Royal Royale, All Competitors Welcome!” Beneath it, the ever-smug Nemo was emblazoned, his distinctive display ringed with laurels.
“Royal Royale, huh?” Mirinae finally said, chuckling mirthlessly. “He’s as terrible with names as ever.”
“If I didn’t know better, I would think he was treating this as some sort of joke,” Olivier grumbled. Hearing two pairs of footsteps behind him, he turned and gestured for Roland and Tiphereth, the latter engrossed in a sapphiric piece of chocolate hanging from her mouth. “Come on, you two.”
“We’re coming, we’re coming!” Roland called, a bundle of chocolates hanging from a bag slung over his shoulder. The four approached the entrance, the distinctive hum of gears and the waft of smoke causing the two librarians to instinctively recoil. Roland fumbled for his gun as three figures descended from the silver archways, masses of disheveled and horrific flesh laced with metal and mockingly covered in ill-fitting suits, the eye-catching twin gears still rustling in their lumped heads. They approached like trained zombies, unaware of their astonished guests.
“Woah, woah, calm down there Roland,” Olivier said, immediately catching Roland’s hand as he raised the Atelier Logic rifle. “Those are just some of Nemo’s employees.”
“His… employees?” Tiphereth asked, a little incredulous.
“The Church of Gears pretty much collapsed in on itself when Eileen died with the rest of the Reverberation Ensemble,” he explained, shrugging nonchalantly. “A couple of them wandered off to the Backstreets and got swept away. Some others just died off without some leader to coordinate them. Hell, we had to stop some of our associate offices from hunting them down for sport. Some Offices went a step further and started capturing them wholesale. You can see where… that went.”
“That sounds unsafe,” Roland observed, still wary as the ex-Church of Gears worshippers stopped short of the Fixers, giving a courteous bow as they beckoned them to enter.
“It does,” Mirinae said, giving a dismissive glare to the worshippers as she pushed them aside. “But with half the associations still undergoing some reconstruction, no one’s been able to appropriately run an audit into these acquisitions. We’ll just have to deal with the consequences as they happen.”
“That sounds idiotic,” Tiphereth said, cautiously walking around the worshippers, her hand still hovering on the handle of her sword. “What happens if they go berserk? Or if someone tries to use them to attack the City?”
Mirinae smiled, a bloodthirsty glint reflected in her glasses. “Then we of the Hana Association will make them regret their decision.”
Their greeters left behind, the four approached the silver archways, accompanied by a noisy and rather irritated crowd beside them still trapped in a long and winding line. Tiphereth tracked its length, going down the stairs and across several blocks, its composition a smattering of civilians, Fixers, and even the odd syndicate member here and there. There was an odd tension in the air and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, feeling the boiling aggravation of several different and diametrically opposed factions settle on her.
“Next!”
A young businesswoman stood at the end of the line, surrounded by several different Church of Gears worshippers. She ruffled through her briefcase as a group of axe gang grunts crowded around her, pulling out a small stack of contracts, their bulk almost as wide as her arm. She ran a hand through her hair, failing to reveal her eyes as her hair fell back into place. “Thank you for your interest in the Royal Royale. Please fill out the information on pages 2, 8, 31, and 49, initial on 23 and 89, and sign on 18, 70, 193, and 300. Then we can take your photos on the hallway to your ri-“
“The hell is this shit?” an axe gang grunt yelled, tossing the paperwork to side with a swipe of his arm. He smashed his axe into the table separating the girl from the impatient syndicate members, the labored wood collapsing under its weight. “We’re here to smash some heads and collect the prize that Nemo dude promised. What more do you need?”
“Cane Office policy requires that you read the necessary disclosures and provide the correct information,” she continued, unperturbed by the grunt towering over her. She reached into her briefcase, retrieving another stack of contracts and offering it to the grunt. “Also I need the signatures of each person participating. If you would just take this and pass it to the associate behind you-“
“Just get the hell outta our way,” the grunt sneered, taking a swipe at the girl’s head. She stepped back, deflecting the swipe with the flat end of her briefcase with a long sigh.
“Sir, attacking Cane Office personnel is strictly prohibited. I must ask you to leave.”
“Like hell we will you bitch. I’m gonna gut you like a fi-“
The lock of the briefcase snapped open, and a myriad of golden ribbons sprung forth from its depths, smashing into the exposed grunt like miniature, hypercharged pistons. The cracking of his ribs echoed down to the base of the staircase, while his pained screams reverberated in the skies as his body was flung in a wide arc, finally hitting the sidewalk below with a sickening thud. She turned to the other axe gang members, shaking her head. “I must ask the rest of you to please return to the end of the line. Further resistance will be met with a similar ejection. Next!”
The four of them watched as the remnants of the axe gang sprang down the staircase – tactlessly failing to retrieve the mangled remains of their comrade – disappearing far past the end of the line. A soft cough caught their attention as another businessman beckoned to them, an unsubtle, mechanized gauntlet hanging from his forearm.
“You’d think that they’d stop trying to provoke Martina,” he sighed, pulling out a small stack of papers and thumbing through its contents. “Bada, Cane Office. I believe you two are Mr. Olivier and Ms. Mirinae, and you two are…”
He paused briefly, blinking his eyes as to dispel a mirage. He grimaced as the smug face of the well-dressed Fixer met his gaze, giving a mock wave. “Roland. My friend here is Tiphereth. I believe we met.”
“Yes, I believe we have,” he said, returning to his contracts. He passed a small form to Olivier before motioning for the others to enter. “Most of your information has already been prefilled. We can skip the formalities and get you to the registration office. Just head down the hall and take a right, then look for the receptionist with red hair.”
“Wooooow…” Tiphereth’s jaw almost hit the floor as she cast her eyes across the wide spanning arena. The imposing exterior was almost a disservice to the colosseum proper, a veritable ocean of seats overlooking a gigantic, flat tournament square, its length comparable to a city block. A gigantic, stained-glass skylight – ornately displaying a messianic Nemo on high, suspended by golden wings and cradled by a throne of money – bathed the arena in sunlight, while the multitude of spotlights ensured that not a single shadow would obscure the spectacle playing out. Nestled near the top of the stadium, a lone announcer box was situated in a prime, viewing area for the tournament, the voice of its two occupants booming through the many speakers ringing the tournament seats.
“Heeeeeeeello, District 7!” the jubilant announcer began, his vibrant voice overcharged with energy. He brushed his silvery hair away from his eyes, leaving his sunglasses alone to accentuate his brilliance. “This is your favorite DJ, announcer, and exposition spouter, Alexander Fishhead, and once again I’d like to welcome all our new contestants, spectators, and sore losers alike to the Inter-City Royal Royale, sponsored by Cane Office! Remember: Don’t settle for A grade when you can have certified C grade tech. It seems our color caster has just arrived in the booth so please give a warm and welcome applause to Salvador!”
The colosseum roared in applause and cheers as Salvador cleared his throat. “Thank you, Fishhead. Like my ever-pleasant co-caster said, my name is Salvador, and I am one of the Operators of Dawn Office. While some of my Fixers are participating in the tournament proper, I was asked to help commentate on the week’s event, given my familiarity with some of the more notable contestants.”
“Thaaat’s right! Who more than a bona fide veteran of the Smoke War to fill us in on our dazzling combatants! And since we’re here, let’s cast an eye on the preliminaries. Do you happen to know anything about the two guys duking it out right now?”
“Yes, I do recognize two of them. The younger contestant there is one of the Liu Association’s most trusted Fixers, a young woman named Cecil. And ever since the Library incident a few months ago, she and the rest of Liu Section 2 have been busying themselves with some interesting work, such as…”
A loud crack echoed from the arena as Cecil’s body was flung across its pavement like a skipped stone, bouncing off the white stone with two, three fair bounces before she finally caught herself, driving her fist deep into the arena floor and pulling herself to a stop. She straightened herself, wiping the blood dripping from her mouth with the back of her glove, and tossed her frayed ponytail behind her, raising fists in an offensive posture. Her opponent, a hulking, towering Fixer, swaggered toward her, his perpetually smiling mask caked with blood and chipped at the ends. “C’mon, now,” McCullin mocked gleefully, spinning his axe behind him. “You gotta hit me harder than that if you wanna get anywhere.”
“Hit you harder, huh?” Cecil asked, a smug grin spreading across your face. “Alright then. Let’s go.”
In a burst of smoke and dust, Cecil closed the distance between them in a single blink, smashing her fist directly into McCullin’s chest with a resonant boom. Even as the Hook Office Fixer’s body began to ragdoll, she spun and leapt into the air, smashing the back of her heel directly into his chin with a torturous crack, before twisting her body, extending her arm to-
Have it be caught in mid-air by the unmoving Fixer.
“Wha.”
“Cute,” McCullin sneered, dropping his axe and grabbing Cecil’s ankle with his other hand. “My turn.”
Flinging his arms in a long arc, he sent the hapless Cecil into a frantic spin before, still clamped onto her ankle, smashing her face-first into the ground, sending a multitude of cracks through the newly-paved arena. Giving her barely a moment to moan in pain, he smashed his boot into the small of her back, eliciting a sharp and agonized yelp, before pulling her body forcefully up by her ponytail and sending her flying with a well-placed punch. Much like before, she was sent careening across the arena, this time tumbling in a heap near the edge of the arena.
“Yiiiiiiiiiikes!” Fishhead’s voice echoed from above, clearly disconcerted by the ignoble tumbling of the Liu Fixer’s body. “Looks like the Liu Association’s finest is losing these clashes like an amateur. Could it be that she’s underestimated her opponent?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Salvador’s calm voice came in reply. “For those who didn’t know, Hook Office has dramatically risen as an upcoming Office ever since the Library fell. They’ve brought down several Urban Nightmare syndicates single-handedly and I’ve heard from the grapevine they’re even eyeing some of the Fingers. It seems like they have something to prove after being one of the first to fall to that blazing Star.”
“The old man’s not wrong,” McCullin scoffed, his axe leaving a shower of sparks as he dragged it behind him. Cecil struggled to her knees, coughing up a small bit of blood, as she looked up at the imposing Fixer before her. “Getting done in by some smug librarian, some glorified Nest egg. Really hit me right there in the heart, y’know.” He scratched the smile on his mask, as though recalling a vivid daydream. “In fact, you two look pretty similar. That long hair, that damn smile, those fucking eyes, looking down on me.” His fingernail dragged down the side of his mask, leaving a visible scar, as he raised his axe. “When I cave your face in, I’ll think of that damn bitch, and I’ll think real hard about the hook I’ll hang her screaming body from.”
With a bloodcurdling scream, he smashed his axe down – down on a bloodied and dusty bit of empty rock.
“Huh? But-“ His head spun to follow the girl, just too slow to catch her flying in from the side, smashing her shoulder into his exposed side. His pained groan was drowned out by Cecil’s adrenaline-fueled roar as she spun her body around, slamming her foot into McCullin. As he flew back, she surged forward and grabbed the dazed Fixer by the collar before whirling around, sending him flying. Unlike the nimble and battered Cecil, McCullin crashed into the arena like a flightless bird, lying still.
“It’s very unprofessional to talk down to your opponent like that,” Cecil said matter-of-factly, approaching the motionless body. “And such a telegraphed attack leaves you open to a counter. Maybe keep that in mind while you’re recuperating in the infirmary.”
She sighed, wiping some of the blood beginning to drip down her forehead. Just a foot away from McCullin, she straightened her cape and removed her tattered, ragged gloves, her attention waylaid for just a second – a second long enough for her feet to be swept underneath her.
“Fu-!” She slammed into the ground with a hard crack, feeling her body once again erupt in pain. She moved to jump to her feet, only to feel her throat tightening. With a breathless gasp, she was lifted in the air, her limbs flailing like a reckless marionette, struggling to draw in air as McCullin kept her a good foot suspended off the ground, choking on her own cape.
“Thanks for the advice. Here’s some for you.” He raised his axe, leveling it on Cecil’s face. “Capes are terrible for combat. They’re a good place for someone to hold onto you.”
The axe fell with a sickening crunch and an agonized scream. The arena fell still, save for the static of the announcer above.
“Ho-Holy shit, everyone!” Fishhead cried, his quivering voice overpowering the dreaded stillness. “Did you see that? Did you fucking see that?”
McCullin cocked his head to the side, almost as if his eyes were playing tricks on him. His axe did, indeed, find a mark – its sharpened, bloodied head embedded deeply into Cecil’s left arm. With a grunt, he tried to yank it free, only for Cecil to pull back with a sharp cry, keeping the axe stuck within her. She steadied her gasps, staring down the astonished Fixer with her arm raised.
“Did you think a Liu Fixer couldn’t take a fucking axe?”
Cecil slammed her fist directly into McCullin’s exposed face, the mask cracking and warping under the strain of the thunderous blow. His grip loosened and Cecil fell to the ground, coughing and spluttering as she unclipped her cape and tossed it to the side, taking in heavy, labored breaths. She looked up as McCullin staggered back, wavering like an unsteady tree, before finally collapsing to the ground with a low, rumbling thud. Cecil coughed as she rose to her feet, brushing back some of her bloodied hair from her face.
“And we have a winner!” Fishhead’s voice boomed through the speakers. “There you have it, folks! Cecil will be one of many lucky contestants making it through the preliminaries! But don’t you leave your seats yet – we still got a great many fights to go through as we go through the next few fights. After these messages, you can bet we’ll be right back to the action, but before we do, this is a word from our sponsors, the illustrious Cane Office! Are you thinking of picking up a new television to keep up with those hip new dramas taking over the market! Worry no longer, because the Nemovision promises you exemplary displays at insane prices, and here’s why-“
Cecil sighed and fell to a weary kneel, her blurry vision barely focusing on the medical staff as they flooded through the arena doors, a flurry of gears and metal wheeling a gurney toward the grievously injured Fixer. As the last vestiges of her consciousness began to leave her, one final thought left her lips.
“… I hope they shut up in the next matches.”